"Yes," answered his companion, with a pensive air; "too simple, in fact. Complete happiness does not exist in the world in which we are. Why not think a little of the adversity which may surprise you?"
"Why," said the artist, laughing, "it is because, more unhappy and poorer than Polycrates, the tyrant of Samos, I have not even a ring to throw into the sea. Moreover, you know the end of the history; some fish or other would bring it back to me. I prefer to wait."
"This philosophy is good; I see no fault in it. Happy are those who can practise it; unhappily I am not of the number," said he, repressing a sigh.
"If I did not fear to displease you, I would, in my turn, address you a question," pursued the painter.
"I know what you wish to ask. You do not understand—is it not so?—how it is that I, whose elevated position would seem to place me under shelter from tempests, find myself near you today in the desert."
"Pardon me, Monsieur; if what I ask you will the least in the world annoy you, do not tell me a word."
The old man smiled with bitterness—
"No," pursued he; "it is good sometimes to pour off the fulness of one's heart into a pure and indulgent soul. I will only tell you a few words which will acquaint you with all."
"Elevated summits fatally attract lightning; that is an axiom generally acknowledged. Notwithstanding the support I gave the Bourbons, my devotion would not convince them of my fidelity."
"Under the rule of Louis XVIII., they regained the same spirit which had formerly voted the death of Louis XVI. Friends warned me, condemning myself to exile, to avoid the death suspended, without doubt, over my head."